The Devil's Suitcase
by redcharcoal
Summary: An AU Mirandy fic: When not ruling her fashion magazine empire, Miranda Priestly has a secret life - as an MI6 agent. She is a driven perfectionist in both realms with little time for distractions ... until she meets an impossible woman who turns her life upside down. My first DWP fic.
1. Chapter 1

**THE DEVIL'S SUITCASE**  
**By Red Charcoal**

**CHAPTER 1: THAT'S ALL**

Lecherous bores Miranda Priestly could take care of. After all, that's why she had assistants.

Scheming corporate CEOs were something she could effectively kneecap also, when given enough time and intell to implement a strategy that would put them back in the metaphoric corner, quivering in a ball-gag.

Even shadowy foreign assets with a kill order on her did not trouble her for too long. Her cunning, intellect, power and extensive contacts were part of the reason she had defied the life expectancy of MI6 field agents to live to the ripe old age of fifty-two with no one ever suspecting her fashion image could possibly hide something else.

Although she had to admit that gunshot wound to her right kidney still gave her pause. Still, she mused, that idiotic fool Kristov had come off far worse - unless bodybag chic was now the new look for summer.

But husbands? These mystifying, enraging creatures were the bane of her existence. And right now, husband number three was making Miranda Priestly mirthlessly recall each and every method she knew of to bloodlessly and soundlessly incapacitate an annoying 172lb male without raising a sweat or breaking a nail.

She had mentally counted up to method number 12, the reverse choke (with an optional eyeball poke), when he finally said something both halfway intelligent and entirely too knowing. Especially for a man on his fifth scotch.

They had been fighting for a good three hours about how she spent more time at work than home, how he was virtually raising her two contrary daughters who still, by the way, didn't like him. (She was definitely seeing their point of view on that one right now.) How she was a cold fish. An ice queen. Frigid in bed on the rare occasions she acquiesced to his demands. Oh and, by the way, how DID she get that gunshot wound in her side anyway?

Miranda had almost dropped her chardonnay. Her eyes had shot to his in surprise that he'd even noticed, let alone that he knew exactly what it was.

"Gunshot? My, my how you do have an excitable imagination," Miranda had drawled as casually as she could muster, even as her fingers whitened on the glass. Her lips thinned into a cold line.

Suddenly aware he had her complete attention for the first time in, well, years, he stopped and looked directly at her. "You forget my father was a recreational hunter," he said sourly. "I grew up around it. I immediately knew exactly what I was looking at when I saw you getting out of the shower yesterday. I saw you dress the wound. You did it like a seasoned pro, by the way. A field medic couldn't have done it faster or more professionally. So tell me, Miranda, how does the world's foremost fashion editor even acquire a bullet wound and no one hears a whisper?"

He stared at her hard, his eyes tracking to her indignantly flaring nostrils. Miranda sighed inwardly. Clearly marriage number three had finally reached the end of its usefulness - such as it was.

She wondered, not for the first time, why she kept persisting with the absurd show. It was getting increasingly difficult to go through the motions, especially when these husbands were so demanding. Like highly strung poodles, really. But at least poodles didn't ask sticky questions.

"And when were you peering in on me in the shower, Stephen?" she asked with a low, menacing tone. She deliberately made it sound creepy and dirty.

"For god's sake, Miranda, we're married. That's supposed to mean it's not shocking to see the other person naked. Although granted your insane hours and constant 'headaches' every night means that me seeing you naked is not unlike a Big Foot sighting."

He gave her that furious, frustrated look of a man denied, one she'd seen all too often these past seven years. Miranda almost exhaled in relief at that, pleased he'd been so easily distracted.

Still, it was time to wrap things up - in every sense - before he got curious enough to return to his astute earlier point. Namely – fashion editors generally do not acquire secret gunshot wounds. Nor knife wounds, broken ribs and odd bruising in unlikely places, for that matter, had he bothered to notice over the years. Thank goodness for excellent make-up.

She tapped her lip for a moment. She really should do a Napolean Perdis spread as a thank you at some point.

"I think you've made your disdain for me clear enough tonight," Miranda began softly sitting up ramrod straight. "So why should we bother any longer with this charade of a marriage? Hmm?"

Her eyes glittered as she conveyed her irritation at his failure to be the one thing she'd expected him to be: A good cover. He was the perfect husband on paper – all old school money, excellent connections, seasoned handsome looks.

As mercenary as she was in her selection, he'd been little better, telling her one night that he'd married her when his colleagues had mocked him, saying the fashion queen was way out of his league.

Had there ever been love? Not on her side, certainly. Although she did love the _idea_ of him rather a lot. Especially the doting father image she'd formed in her mind, fearful her little girls might miss out on something. The fact neither step-father nor daughters had ever bonded was just another disappointment in a long line of them in her life.

Somewhere in the whole sorry affair, she'd also forgotten it had just been a business arrangement on her part, with occasional empty, forgettable sex to scratch an itch (his usually), and the arguments had become increasingly personal.

His mouth fell open, almost comically, at her finite statement.

_Oh for God's sake – did he really expect this marital endeavour had a future? _

He'd virtually called her daughters "unlovable spoiled brats" not an hour ago. He was lucky she hadn't simply utilized male-submission technique No. 17 and left him writhing. His manhood should thank her for her considerable restraint.

She gave him a cold smile. "What, did you think this could work? Now? After all this? That we would miraculously come together in the spirit of co-operation after three hours of me being called the worst names you could think of? Telling me I'm a failure as a mother and wife? Telling me you can't bear to see me 'frumpy' in the bathroom without make-up each morning? Because I can assure you, there is _no_ going back from telling any woman these things. And the fact you told _me_ these…" she waved her hand dismissively "brave confessions, tells me you are either suicidal or _badly_ wish a divorce. So don't be a coward, Stephen," she said with soft menace. "You know I can't stand that. Own it."

"Own it?" he repeated numbly. "You cold fucking bitch! You really don't care, do you?"

Miranda stared straight through him, to the clock she knew to be on the far wall, and swirled her wine, not bothering to answer. She knew it would bother him far more than an answer.

"For god's sake, Miranda, think at least of how this will look!"

She had to smile at that. Of course, he didn't care about her, it was his ego. Always was. His associates potentially jeering at him that he'd failed to tame and keep the vaunted dragon lady.

She paused, mid swirl. On the other hand she was well aware of how Page Six would feast on this failure, on her, for weeks to come.

But, even so, the man was now a liability – drinking too much, nagging too much, and far worse, noticing things he most definitely shouldn't.

"Oh now you're smiling? Well that's a turn around," he suddenly shouted, almost making her jump. Only years of discipline prevented her from doing so. "Hell, well I never thought I'd see one of _those_ again. Because we both know who they're reserved for, don't we?"

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Her eyes bored into his. Every part of her tensed body now projected warning.

"I'm talking about those tiny secret smiles you give yourself when you think no one's looking. Always when your roaming eyes undress your pretty little assistants like you're a half-starved hyena and they're the bloodied steak."

"Stephen," she'd snapped, "Do not say further things you will regret."

"Tell me something," he said suddenly, "since we're getting it all out - did you ever fuck any of them? The assistants? Maybe right here in the house after they dropped off the book? Like that Emily? She seems devoted enough to rip down your panties and do you on her knees in our fucking entrance hall." His reddening face turned to hers, as if he really needed to know. "Did you just peer down at her and declare 'That's all' after she'd gotten you off and you'd rubbed yourself all over her face?"

Miranda's temper flared and she decided enough really was enough now. It was time to end this.

"Your delusional oversexed mind runs riot. I would _never_ touch an assistant. Unlike some, only a fool dips the pen in the company ink." She gave an icy sneer as the insult settled on him. "Oh yes," she said in a velvety voice, "I know all their names, where they live, who their bosses are, who their husbands are. And the fact your current piece of fluff is your boss's wife."

He stared at her for a beat, his face sagging.

"You…"

She waited for him to process his shock, saying nothing. Her eyes glinted in the low light.

"You're bluffing," he eventually squeaked. But it was phrased as a question.

She snorted. "Really, dear, you were married to me for how long and would still draw THAT conclusion? How little you've learned."

He searched her face for a moment and finally his head dropped. "Fine. You win. I'll pack. I'll leave tomorrow morning so I can say goodbye to the girls."

"No need," Miranda said caustically. "You don't want to anyway. You made that very clear."

The relief on his face was evident. He didn't even bother to hide it. That didn't stop the parting salvo.

"Bitch," he muttered softly, turning to go back up to his room. "You really are the Ice Queen. The Devil herself."

She watched him go, trying to feel even remotely sorry. All she could muster was deep regret that her daughters would suffer yet again through a very public divorce.

He glanced back at her halfway up his unsteady climb, and stopped, his jaw working.

"Just tell me," he muttered. "All these secrets you keep: Did I even know you - the real you? At all?"

At this Miranda almost laughed in his face. Instead she deliberately glanced down and disdainfully made a show of flicking invisible lint off her pants.

It was answer enough.

"Hell," he muttered as he resumed his shambolic climb, side-eyeing her. "Of fucking course not."

This time she did give him a smile, full blooded, transforming her face into one of breathtaking beauty. He stared at her in confusion until the crimson lips twisted into two hateful words.

"That's all."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO: WESTWOOD WITH A FRIEDMODIN TWIST**

Miranda strode past her assistants' work stations and flung her coat and bag on Emily's desk. The second Emily. She hadn't bothered learning her name. Why would she? This one wouldn't last.

"Emily," she husked to her first assistant and entered her office.

The redhead leaped from her seat as if it were a molten lava flow and scampered after her, pulling a notebook and pen out.

"Move up the run-through to ten, get some new scarves from Philippe, these look like bargain-bin tourist-shop souvenirs from Samoa, tell Irv it's already in my budget and he can't do that, and tell Nigel no green, what IS his obsession with green?, get me the itinerary for both New York and London fashion weeks since the idiots have chosen to overlap them this year, and contact my lawyer. If my soon-to-be ex-husband calls he is NOT to be put through. Is that clear?"

She glanced at the Starbucks next to a stack of papers on her desk and reached for it. Her fingertips barely recoiled from heat so she binned it with a humph just as Emily had stuttered "Y-yes, Miranda."

"And a new coffee. This time hotter than that lukewarm atrocity. Why is this _so_ difficult?" She waved her hand. "That's all."

She peered at Emily who hadn't budged.

"Well?"

"I-I had another call from that freelance journalist, Andy Sachs? She thinks you'll be perfect for her series on women who've shaped fashion in the modern era. She wants to follow you around London Fashion Week."

"Haven't I already said no once?" Miranda frowned, removing her glasses, then tapping them against her lower lip.

"Yes. But that was before she explained more about..."

"Are you hard of hearing?"

"... the concept. No, Miranda."

"Then why are you wasting my time? Why would I want some tawdry member of the Fourth Estate trailing about after me in London? It's bad enough the photographers..." Her mouth pinched as she stopped, realising she had come perilously close to explaining herself.

"Of course Miranda. I'll tell her she'll have to go with her second choice and talk to Anna Wintour instead."

Miranda froze at the mention of her arch nemesis at _Vogue_. "This Sachs person cannot be serious to want _her_," Miranda retorted waspishly. "That ancient dessicated style tragic whose name shall not be spoken last knew what was fashionable in the _sixties_. And I'm not convinced she wasn't high on an illicit hallucinogen at the time."

"So I should ..." Emily looked at her in confusion, "...tell the journalist to choose you then, not Ann... um, _her_?" she finished in a desperate rush.

Clearly the conversation had already burnt through what little power Emily's morning cheese cube had afforded her grey matter.

Miranda glared at her. "Are you deranged?" she asked icily. "Any imbecilic creature who would think _that woman_ is in _any way_ suitable for an article on forward thinkers of fashion is not worth _my_ time or attention. That's all."

Emily nodded abruptly and scurried away while Miranda booted up her computer and stretched slightly. She felt a few kinks unkink themselves and winced as her side throbbed painfully.

Hell. How long would this ridiculous injury take to heal? For God's sake the bullet only nicked her kidney, not blasted it apart. And her seven-week treatment in that secret private hospital in Europe while she was allegedly "seeking out hidden design talent to give Runway a fresher look" should have been enough to fix her.

She allowed herself a small head shake. It wasn't her finest cover story (well the meds _had_ been kicking in at the time) - as evidenced by Nigel's later, occasional sly inquiries as to where these supposed unheralded design geniuses she'd unearthed actually were. The man could be annoyingly persistent.

At least Emily had just sniffed at her ongoing absence and went with it - forwarding calls, getting the twins' father to take them in, and electronically emailing her The Book for the duration of her recovery.

The point, though, was that she usually recovered _much_ faster. The implications of this settled into the pit of her stomach as she logged into her email account. She felt particularly unimpressed to consider she might be nearing what some might call ... old. Or at least, older.

She sighed.

Miranda perused her inbox as she absently rubbed her wounded side through the bandage she was so adept at changing she could do it blindfolded. Her eye suddenly caught the Drafts folder which had a black "(1)" in it.

She never left drafts, ever.

She sucked in a breath and clicked on it. It was empty. She promptly deleted it, knowing exactly what that was the signal for.

Miranda quickly retrieved her personal laptop and booted it up. Logging into a private, secured email on an account she used sparingly for just this purpose, she scanned that email account's drafts folder. Sure enough, a new draft was in bold, waiting.

Unsent emails left no trace anywhere, Miranda knew. It was a way to communicate with her other office, without anyone being the wiser, because nothing was ever transmitted. All perfectly easy so long as both parties had the same password details. Oh, it wasn't foolproof. Someone could hack the account, or someone could use a keylogger on her computer and work out what she'd typed. But even if they did, they'd also have to know what the coded message typed actually meant, too.

She opened the new draft.

_"Vivienne Westwood plans a new line of accessories. Inspiration rumoured to be from Friedmodin."_

Miranda stared, her rage sparking as she took in the words. This was simply _unacceptable_.

She immediately deleted the contents of the draft, and wrote her own message.

_"An impossible style clash. I cannot see that working."_

She saved the draft and shut down her laptop, knowing it would take a few hours for London to check back in. She angrily pushed it back in its case as she considered the import of what they were asking of her. Westwood - a London designer - meant Miranda was expected to go to London. Friedmodin, beginning with F, meant in February. And the fact it was the name of a scent not a designer, was code for the matter being high level and, therefore, non-negotiable.

But she could try. She had to. February in 2009 had an anomaly. Both key fashion weeks - New York and London - were crossing over and it meant bedlam for fashion magazines the world over. Everyone was automatically more harried, and designers were having meltdowns on both sides of the planet.

Meanwhile her deal with _certain people_ had always been that her undercover work would never impede or intersect with any of the dates of the world's major fashion weeks. As she'd pointed out to her spy bosses more than once, nothing would blow her cover faster than to be a no-show at a must-attend event she was expected to be seen at. They had all agreed.

That's why they had all their other little spies, was it not? To do all the rest of the day-to-day espionage that any run-of-the-mill clod-hopper with a $10 trench coat could manage? She was always to be used sparingly, for duties that matched her unique skill-set - her networking, VIP-event access and powerful upper-level contacts. She had access to premium events, pockets, handbags and hotel rooms in a way few others did.

All involved had accepted this. The deal had been done. Hands had been shaken. And, for almost two decades, the shadowy powers that be had respected the agreement to never bother her during a fashion week.

Now this.

_What the hell was going on?_

Four hours and three centre-of-the-sun coffees later, she'd worked herself into a foul mood. She'd fired the other Emily - the simpering idiot's name still escaped her - snapped at Nigel, telling him that renaming green to "aqua" in The Book didn't make it _less_ green, and told her shark of a divorce lawyer to take Stephen to the cleaners. She would never forgive him for either the "frumpy" crack or the "spoiled brats" reference to her darling girls. He. Would. Pay.

Riding that swell of simmering rage, she opened her laptop again and entered her secured email account. The draft message had changed._ "Anna thinks it would be a good match. POA."_

Miranda swore softly under her breath. Invoking her chief magazine rival's name was code for one thing. Things were very bad. There had to be great danger, hence the breaking of the agreement.

POA - price on application - meant they did not yet know exactly when in February she'd be utilised, but the grey suits she worked for had obviously determined there might be a clash.

She exhaled. _Well_. She supposed she could get lucky and it would be the start of the month, before either fashion week kicked off. She had been lucky before.

So why did she get the feeling this was not going to be one of those times? The thought had barely entered her brain when a shadow fell across her desk. In the split second before she looked up her irritation flared. Who would DARE enter her inner sanctum unannounced? Even Emily would have enough sense to steer clear when she was in this mood.

Her eyes lifted, her jaw clenched, and her mask was set to intimidate, as she met wide, warm brown pools.

"Hi!" said a friendly, mid-western voice. Miranda's icy blue eyes slid down to a monstrosity of a cerulean sweater, bulging in all the worst places, and a roadkill skirt she'd sooner go naked than wear herself. She almost tried to stop her eyes from freefalling to the shoes, knowing half a second before they settled on the Birkenstocks, that she'd be gravely sorry.

She was.

Her lips pursed until they were almost white around her YSL rouge lipstick, her head snapped back slightly in recoil. _What on earth WAS this unholy creature? And where was Emily_? She peered past the cerulean lump but could see no sign of the redhead.

Her reaction went seemingly unnoticed by her unwelcome guest.

"You must be Miranda. Well I'm Andy - well, Andrea - Sachs. I've been trying to reach you about my story. You know, the modern world's fashion shapers?"

And then, adding to the preposterousness of the moment, she stuck out her hand and waited, offering a wide, innocent smile.

Miranda simply stared.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3: DEAL WITH THE DEVIL**

"How," Miranda began, straightening in her seat, her tone deadly soft, "did YOU get in the building?"

"Oh, uh, well see it's a funny story. Like, ages ago, I got a job at _Auto Universe_ and although that didn't exactly work out - the editor kept asking if I'd pose on the cars for photo shoots in a bikini - I did get on really well with the security guards. I kind of kept in touch with a couple of them. They're really good guys. And I guess maybe they, he-he, 'forgot' I don't work here anymore today?"

She smiled again, an attempt at sheepish modesty, but it was one of those dazzling natural smiles that make advertising agencies go weak at the knees. Brown eyes danced.

Miranda stared at her, supremely miffed at this display of, well, galling 'sparkle', wondering if she could get the entire security company fired for this breach.

"And how is this a 'funny' story? The part where you got into the building under false pretenses and I have you arrested for trespass? And when are we coming to the bit where you stuffed my first assistant's body in a bin somewhere? Because I'm going to assume someone who sneaks around like a cockroach is also responsible for her suspicious absence as well?"

"Do you mean that redheaded girl? I passed her on the way in. She seemed to have an accident with a bag of cheese cubes just outside the kitchen. She was on the floor picking them up saying 'bollocks' over and over. I promise I didn't sabotage her cheese or anything. My expertise is in a _whole_ other area."

And there was that stunning smile again. All bright teeth and blinding perfection. Miranda felt tempted to don her sunglasses to protect her vulnerable retinas.

"Mmm," Miranda said, her eyes again slipping across the lumpy cerulean sweater. "Well your 'expertise' clearly doesn't lie in fashion."

"Well I think that's a matter of opinion ..." Andy began.

Miranda held up her hand. "No, no, that wasn't a question."

"But..."

"I have no wish for a reporter hounding me all over London. And so we're very clear, no means no. So, Miss Sachs, you and your indecent poly-blend eyesore may leave. _Now_." She waggled her fingers towards the door and pointedly looked down at her page.

"Wait - is this about the Anna Wintour thing?"

Miranda's head snapped back up and only by the thinnest of margins did she prevent her lips from baring.

"Did I not just tell you to leave?" she husked dangerously.

"I never seriously would have chased her instead. You're the one I want. I mean the one everyone wants. I mean ... oh gosh that came out wrong."

The sight of soft, creamy cheeks reddening sweetly greeted a faintly startled Miranda, who observed darting hands tugging anxiously at the hideous cerulean mass swallowing the young woman's torso. Still, Miranda mused, if she kept tugging it like that, it might be an improvement.

Finally Andrea's words registered. "So you ... _want_ me?" Miranda purred and pursed her lips, conveying a deadly cocktail of mockery, edgy sexuality and derision. She was most proud of the end result.

The journalist's cheeks flushed hotly and her hands flew to her face. "Not like ... I mean of _course_ you're perfect! But as the subject of my _story_ I mean! Oh hell.''

Miranda almost took pity on her.

_Almost._

A commotion outside drew her eye and a frazzled Emily flew into the room, huffing her hollowed cheeks.

"Oh my God, Miranda I'm so sorry there was a kitchen emergency and I ..." She skidded to an abrupt stop when she saw Andrea and her eyes narrowed. She snapped her eyes back to Miranda's to assess whether the arrival was approved of or not. Miranda's pursed lips and faint head shake clearly answered her question.

"How did you get in?! I'm sorry Miranda, I'll get security to remove her at once. Who the HELL are you anyway?"

"Uh, Andy Sachs," the brunette replied, peering down at her elbow that Emily appeared to have latched hold of in a pincer grip. She was using it to firmly steer her out of the office. "We spoke on the phone."

"Oh bollocks, _the journalist_. I already told you she said no. 'No' doesn't mean to get your fat ass up here and try to change Miranda's mind, it means no!"

"Hey, I'm not fat!"

Emily paused her lumpy-creature-hauling efforts to sneer at her as though she was exceptionally stupid. "Do they not have mirrors where you're from?"

She resumed her momentum and, as they reached the door, Andy turned back to glance at Miranda over her shoulder. "If you change your mind, I'll..."

Miranda hurled her best glass-melting, fiery-pits-of-hell glare. Andrea gulped.

"Oh... uh... OK." The brunette faded out and looked away.

"Impudent creature," Emily hissed, loud enough for her boss to overhear as they reached the outer office. "Miranda Priestly doesn't ever 'change her mind'. And even when it seems like she does, she still officially _doesn't_. You hear me?"

"Uh, not really, no..."

"God help me. Are you dense as well as fat?"

"Hey, come on, enough with the fat cracks. I'm a regular size for a woman my height."

"Dear Lord, you actually sound proud of that! Shall I point out this nation's spiraling obesity rates? No? Now sit there while I call security."

"You don't have to. I know the way out."

"You should never have known your way IN. Astonishing you accomplished that feat given your mental shortcomings."

"Hey I'm smart. I'll have you know I was editor in chief of the Daily Northwestern. I also won a national competition for college journalists..."

"And yet you're not remotely bright enough to know when you're not welcome ... [click] Pete? Please send someone up immediately. I have a visitor who needs to leave..."

Miranda smirked and swiveled her chair around to face the window, letting their voices fade into the background. She discovered the excitement of her intruder had vastly improved her mood and taken her mind off her looming responsibilities.

For a brief, crazy second she wondered what it would be like traipsing around London with this bright-eyed writer at her heels, all pure enthusiasm, wide brown eyes and spitfire ... not to mention dreadful clothes.

The last point pulled her up abruptly. That was an excellent reason why she shouldn't even entertain the thought. Her posse at such events was always a reflection on her. Those watching would not know that the journalist was an outsider. So then, Little Miss Sunshine was most definitely a no.

And that was that.

Exactly as it should be.

So ... why did she feel so deflated?

* * *

Two days later, on a Saturday, Miranda was walking Patricia in Central Park. It was nice to be in her far more relaxed clothing - albeit still designer of course - and feel incognito for once. Cassidy's and Caroline's father had the girls for the weekend so she had plenty of time to think about her upcoming London visit.

She wished she could find some enthusiasm but the tension she always felt before a mission was slowly starting to build. She'd increased her sessions with her martial arts instructor to four times a week, and her gym attendance to six times a week. By the time she crawled home each night, she was virtually asleep in minutes. The Book had become a pre-dawn obligation these days instead of a late-night one.

Which reminded her. She had to put some time in on the gun range at some point and they were now open late on Thursdays. She should make a booking under her usual fake name. She just needed to blow the cobwebs out on her small-arms skills. After all, it never hurt to be prepared.

The intoxicating smell of coffee distracted her as she drew closer to her favourite park bench, which she was dissatisfied to see already came with one stranger, face hidden, reading a newspaper. The coffee at their side, though, smelt divine. _Well, it couldn't hurt just to sit a minute, and inhale in a lungful of that sweet scent._

She eased herself down to the far edge of the bench and sucked in the world's most delectable smell. _Ambrosia_. She stretched out her legs and eyed the blue early morning sky, as Patricia sat contentedly at her feet, catching her breath.

"You know," the person buried in the paper beside her suddenly said, "You don't have to sit there smelling it. I made it for you." A hand pushed the sealed cup towards her. The paper came down and Miranda was startled to see familiar brown eyes.

"You?!'' she gasped at Andrea Sachs. "What on earth? You're stalking me now?"

"Actually I could argue you're stalking me. Cos I'm just sitting here enjoying my Saturday."

"With a coffee you claim is for me. So you were expecting me."

"I was. Turns out you are as predictable as Page Six thinks you are."

Miranda frowned as Andrea folded her paper open at a page and showed her a photo. It was her, Patricia and her daughters in Central Park. The caption read: The Dragon Lady and her pretty dragonettes out for their usual Saturday morning Central Park stroll."

Andy pointed to a rock in the photo next to a park bench. "Looks familiar right?"

Miranda recoiled. "This is beyond unorthodox, it's almost creepy. It's ... I will ... so we're clear, I will absolutely not allow you to go to London with me."

"Did I ask?" Andy lifted her eyebrows. "Like I said, I'm just sitting here. You're free to leave any time." Then she gave a grin as she popped the lid on the coffee allowing the rich smell to fill the air even more.

_Oh God - it was utterly sinful._ Miranda's nostrils twitched. Actually _twitched_. Her fingers twitched, too, but she balled them into a fist on the seat.

Andrea pretended not to notice and then took a small bowl out of her backpack and placed it on the ground. She ferreted around for a bottle of water and filled up the bowl, nudging it with her foot towards an appreciative Patricia.

"I want you to know I thought of everyone in your family."

The dog gratefully lumbered over and began to lap the water noisily.

"And how did you know my girls wouldn't be with me?" Miranda inquired archly.

"I didn't." Andrea flipped open her back pack to reveal sealed orange juices encased in an icepack and organic granola bars. "I like to prepare for all contingencies."

"Ah, so you're the _smart_ fat girl then."

Miranda enjoyed far too much the look of outrage that flashed across the other woman's face.

"You fashion magazine people are so warped about what's normal. You know that right?" she said in annoyance and folded her arms indignantly across her chest. "No wonder girls grow up with eating disorders."

"And yet you wish to follow us all about for a fashion story while holding this smugly superior view? That we're all so dreadful. I must say you have a funny way of trying to win me over. Insulting me and everyone in my field."

She gave a withering sneer. Without thinking she'd grasped the coffee her fingers had been inching towards and drew it to her lips. As she finished her sharply delivered point she tipped it into her mouth. And then her taste buds _exploded_.

The wash of flavours, _dear God, was that caramel and cinnamon, and a hint of chilli?_, flowed through the fiery hot caffeine - perfectly centre-of-the-sun temperature. Andrea must have timed her arrival to perfection. The wash of delicious caffeine swirled around her mouth and she finally swallowed. She couldn't stop, though. Not now. She needed more, and gulped in a second mouthful. This time was even more vibrant than the first and she could have wept over the orgasmic rush that now filled her ecstatic belly. She forced herself to lower the drink to her lap and looked at her beaming benchmate in astonishment.

"What _is_ this? Where did you get it? I _must_ know the name of your supplier at once!''

The brunette tilted her head back and laughed. "You make me sound like your crack dealer."

"No toying, Andrea. _Where. Did. You. Get. This._" Her eyes flashed darkly. The thought of never drinking a beverage so pure in engaging her senses again filled her with dread. At the mere thought of that dire outcome, her fingers tightened on the container and she took another sip. Which turned into a richly satisfying _gulp_.

"Well?" she demanded when she lowered the cup again.

The other woman merely shrugged. "I made it myself. From an old recipe my mother taught me. I have a pretty good coffee machine that I use to brew it but the recipe itself, well, I'm not sharing it. Sorry."

"This is blackmail then? Your recipe for my letting you do your London story? How mercenary! I never would have thought you had it in you."

Andrea actually sputtered. "_Blackmail?!_ You must be kidding. I'd just heard you were a woman who liked a good coffee, and I know my recipe's pretty special, so it seemed a nice thing to give you some, given I planned to meet you today. And even if you wanted to trade - I would never ever agree to giving away my mom's secret recipe. I can't be bought!"

Miranda sagged against the bench. "I ... see. Then why are you here?" Her trembling fingers brought the cup to her lips and this time she sipped slowly, aware this would likely be the last time she'd savour this nectar from the gods.

"Oh, well it occurred to me you didn't know anything about me or my writing when I first pitched my story. I mean, hell, I could be the world's crappiest journalist, right? I thought that Emily of yours would just toss out anything I sent you, so I figured I should drop you off some writing samples personally. But I didn't want to freak you out by finding out where you lived or anything, so when Page Six outed your exercise spot, I thought, well it's neutral ground for a meeting, right?"

A folder landed between them on the bench and the young woman flipped it open. "Here. My series on the janitor's union conditions - I wrote that in college. Won an award actually..."

"Ah yes, your _national_ award..." Miranda murmured with a faintly mocking tone.

Andrea froze. "No need to sneer, Miranda. Those people work damn hard. Where would we be without janitors? I can't picture you on your knees cleaning your executive toilet."

"Oh trust me, I wasn't sneering at them. It was your boasting to Emily about it I was making light of."

"I'm proud of that award," Andrea said in a hurt tone. "I worked my ass off for that series."

And for the first time in a long time, Miranda actually felt faintly ashamed. She pursed her lips and nodded. "Fine. What else." She was shocked to discover she'd actually just encouraged more sharing from this impossible young woman. What _was_ she thinking? She should have shut her down at once.

Andrea's eyes lit up and before long she was explaining - well, over-explaining - every significant article she'd ever written. They were all so very worthy. Earnest. Serious. Detailed. Even so the woman's enthusiasm for her work was undeniable. And the attention to each subject shone through. The empathy she wove through her words made the people come alive.

Miranda suddenly wondered what it would be like to be at the center of such a profile. To be completely surrounded by the attentions of an individual so utterly focused, attentive, and _caring_ of her subject. Because Andrea Sachs truly cared about her subject matter. And not with the one-eyed adoration of some simpering fan, or an Emily. But like a confidante who knows a person's faults and explains them, clear-eyed, without pity or excuse, but makes the reader care deeply about them anyway.

Her talent shone from every page. It was still raw but it was exceptional.

But that wasn't what had Miranda's mind wandering. It was that no one in her life, barring her twins, was ever that caring about her, enough to bother put her into context, to _explain_. She was always just the Devil. The Snow Queen. No shades of grey. Heaven forbid she was portrayed as anything less than a heartless bitch at the top of her game.

It was an unnerving thought. But was it an unwelcome one? She felt faintly rattled to discover she was actually considering the idea.

She sipped the last of her coffee and, with the greatest of reluctance, put the empty container down.

"How portable is your coffee machine?" she finally asked, breaking their companionable silence.

"Huh?"

"This magical coffee machine you have - how portable?"

"It's, um, been with me everywhere I travel. It's quite compact. So yeah, it can travel."

"I need an assistant. My second assistant foolishly got herself fired for ..." Miranda paused as she realised she could not even recall the girl's infraction. "...reasons. And you already know how to do the primary job of a second assistant: find me good coffee."

"Uh, Miranda, I don't want to be your..."

Miranda shot her a quelling glare for interrupting. "Here is the only deal I am prepared to make: You and your little coffee machine come with me to London. You will act as my second assistant and furnish me with this brew any time, day or night, plus other assorted assisting duties - don't worry, Emily will do the bulk of it.

"You may trail around with me and talk to whoever you must about fashion. At the end of it, if you happen to write about me or the future of fashion or tie-dyed handkerchiefs for all I care, that's entirely your business. I cannot and will not stop you."

"But... I'm a writer not a fashion assistant..."

"That much is abundantly clear," Miranda said with a snort. "You will report to Nigel Kipling in my art department for the loan of a suitable wardrobe while in London that will not make you quite so hideous to endure while at my side."

"B-but..."

"Is that all you can say? I might point out it costs a pretty sum to get to London and back. My assistants get flown there for nothing. Are you really going to quibble about job descriptions when airfares are included?"

"I ... I have to think about this."

"What on earth can there be to consider? I have just offered a way for us to both get what we want. A million girls would kill for this opportunity."

"You don't understand - it's a professional ethics thing. If you pay me, if I'm in your employ, there could be the suggestion you will influence or force the result of my finished article. I want the appearance of impartiality. I cannot be on your payroll Miranda, although it's a generous offer."

"Hm," Miranda paused. No one had ever turned down any of her favours before on the grounds of something so tawdry as ethics. She frowned for a moment, before announcing: "Well then the answer is simple - I won't pay you."

"What?"

"You'll be my assistant in name, but I won't pay you. Then if anyone asks later you can truthfully say I gave you nothing. Even the clothes from the closet you'll have to return to Nigel at the end of the week. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like a very good deal ... for you," Andy mused and gave her a wry smile. "A free assistant, awesome coffee, all unpaid."

"Not quite so good, given I have to tolerate your presence 24/7," Miranda sniffed. "As you can imagine, I'm not fond of journalists. What I am fond of, especially when stressed, is perfect coffee. And I have a feeling this particular fashion week is going to require me at my peak. So, here we are. Do you accept?"

"Accept?" Andrea said slowly. "Your offer to be your unpaid slave?" she clarified.

"Yes," Miranda said, her lips twitching at how perfectly she'd summed it up. "That offer."

Andrea gathered up the used coffee cup and tipped out the last of the water from the dog bowl, toweling it dry and putting it all in a plastic bag in her backpack. Miranda waited as the younger woman decided.

"I do," she finally said, "But you have to give me one good interview at the end. No bullshit either, where everyone's 'such a professional' and a 'delight to work with'. I want the real Miranda, someone with an opinion."

"Really," Miranda drawled, "There _is_ only one Miranda. And I never do such interviews as you describe. I will do none rather than lower myself to mealy-mouthed vapid nonsense befitting some shallow fashion blogger."

"So you'll do it then?"

Miranda sighed. "If my family is off limits. As well as my soon-to-be-ex ..." She froze and her head snapped around and fixed brown eyes with fierce blue ones. "That information has not been made public," she said. "You will not share it with a soul."

Andy shrugged. "Of course. As of right now, I have no interest in anything but fashion."

Miranda's eyes slowly raked over tan yoga pants and a white long-sleeved tee, clearly some department-store special, and even cheaper running shoes. "Well, you certainly could have fooled me, Andrea," she said haughtily.

The woman opposite laughed then, a beautiful full-bodied sound that charmed the older woman who couldn't resist her own lips curling up.

"This is gonna be a riot, I can tell," Andy said, wiping away tears of mirth. "Your tongue," she said and shook her head helplessly. "What a lethal weapon."

"I try," Miranda said but felt vastly pleased nonetheless. It was quite unusual to have her insults met with amusement. Refreshing.

Then she discovered she quite liked the idea of Andrea thinking about her lethal tongue. Her neck reddened at the thought. She stood abruptly, startling Patricia who leapt back and barked.

"Make contact with Emily on Monday. She'll fix you up with Nigel's details. Oh and if I find you have arrived at the airport without your coffee machine, I shall leave you where you stand. Do we understand each other?"

"Like I said, you're hilarious," Andrea grinned.

"I was being quite serious." Miranda glared at her and put her hands on her hips.

"I know," the brunette said with a smirk and stood as well. She shrugged. "That's why you're funny. I suspect not many people see that about you."

And with that she shouldered her backpack, adjusting the straps and took off at a jog, turning back with a wave and a grin. "See ya when we head to London! And thanks."

Miranda watched her casual display and forced herself not to gape. No one _ever_ said "See ya'' to Miranda Priestly. It was completely unheard of!

And if the cheeky woman's taut ass muscles provided an intoxicating display of strength and femininity as she jogged away, she also restrained herself from noticing that, too.

After all, this was purely a working arrangement. Nothing more. Nothing less. As simple as that.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR: THE WOMAN IN THE MIRROR**

Miranda strode the halls of Runway, her fierce black 6in heels drumming a staccato warning for all in the vicinity. The old saying about Mohammad and the mountain came to mind, increasing her annoyance. It's not like she had nothing better to do than scurry about looking for Nigel. She'd already turned up at his office only to be told he had some 'pressing business' underway in The Closet.

_Pressing business? Honestly, what on earth could be so engrossing that he'd missed their scheduled meeting together?_

She ignored the fearful looks on clackers' faces, many of whom dived out of sight as she neared, emitting panicked 'eeps' like small wide-eyed birds. She suspected her wrathful expression had as much to do with it as her reputation.

But the moment she stepped into Runway's Aladdin's cave, she understood. Of course. "Professor Higgins" could never resist a new toy doll to play dress up with. Especially one that might provide a genuine challenge to his talents. Oh, the man could huff all he liked, but she knew by the way Nigel's eyes were presently lit up like Christmas tree lights that this was his idea of heaven: Turning a little cerulean duckling into a Runway standard-issue swan.

Unwilling to disturb the scene before her, but already so curious she forgot she was irritated by his absence, she quietly stepped behind one of the rows of clothes near the back of the room and watched as her art director instructed his unwilling mannequin to "twirl" for him.

"Twirl? Come on, Nigel, I'm a writer. I don't _twirl_."

"Twirl!" He seized her by one shoulder and gently pushed her in the general direction of a twirl.

She completed the manoeuvre, eyes shooting daggers at him the entire time. When she was done, she crossed her arms in front of her chest, but Nigel immediately disentangled them with a "tsk".

Miranda bit back a smirk.

The slouching woman was looking vastly uncomfortable in thigh-high leather boots and a silken black La Perla camisole. But despite her awkward body language and head-to-toe embarrassment, there was no denying the picture she projected.

The boots, covering sleek black leggings, showed off her tall frame to sensational, sensual effect. Miranda's breath caught in surprise. Those long, long legs seemed to be without end.

She slid her eyes higher. Without the sweater monstrosity engulfing her, Andrea's sheer camisole revealed an upper body that was curvaceous and alluring. Her breasts were full and womanly, not the emaciated faint mounds or barely-pubescent bee-stings she had become all too used to seeing in her line of business. Those might be the norm in her world, and had a certain aesthetic value when elegantly draped with fabric, but in front of her right now was a shapely figure and it was … beautiful.

Miranda swallowed a startled gasp at that discovery. She pressed her lips together in dismay.

_Oh for God's sake._ She glanced down at herself in dawning shame. This absolutely would _not_ do – skulking behind the racks, observing this scene like she was some common Peeping Tom. She was appalled.

Besides, she told herself as she lifted her shapely heel to move out into view, she had considerably bigger things to concern herself with than the unexpected beauty of a woman who would be in her life for just one week. Important things that meant life and death and did not compare in the slightest to … _oh God, now the glorious creature was in _profile_._

Her traitorous body instantly slid her foot back to the floor and froze her to the spot. She shut her eyes and took a long breath, trying to expunge the image and go into denial about the telltale sliver of arousal she now felt curling in her belly.

She could hear the conversation flow over her. Andrea was protesting repeatedly that this was 'not really' her look.

"It might not be your look, Six, but it is ours, and if you're going to ride with our Runway posse you need to look the part."

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

"What, Six?"

"Yeah."

"Because that's your dress size. And an inconvenient one it is, too. Do you have any idea how few samples we get for that size in here? Be thankful I can find attire for you at all. Fortunately for you, I am _me_, and can make things work regardless."

"This is so warped – I bet there're wayyy more size six girls in the world than fours or twos or worse."

"Or _worse_? Really, Six," Nigel snorted. "For the record: a woman can never be too young nor too thin in this game. And before you complain with those big, sad, judgmental Mid-Western eyes of yours, I don't make the fashion rules, I merely wrap the packages the fashion world sends my way.

"And don't bother giving me some earnest speech about how you're not a part of all this. That _this_ isn't your world. You soon will be part of it, my dear, and it's something you volunteered for with both eyes open. So suck it up, sweetheart. After all, you need to look the part so you can blend in, and later mock us in some drolly intellectual piece about how 'weird and wonderful' we all are, while you simultaneously add 'hypocrite' to your CV. I like you Andy, but I know how this goes. This isn't my first rodeo."

"Geez, Nigel, how's about you give the cynical assumptions a rest? You barely know me and you sure as hell don't play fair."

"And you should stop 'playing' at all. Time for the big-girl pants, Andy. Take this as seriously as we do or stay home. It's that simple. You want to play both sides. Won't work, love. You will leave London as one of _us_ whether you like it or not. Miranda will see to that. She's a force of nature that you can't help but admire and respect when you're caught up in her orbit. By the end of the week you _will_ understand and appreciate us even if you hate yourself for it.

"And I can see it on your face already - you don't _want_ to betray us and everything we stand for." He gave a wry laugh. "But you will. You will anyway because you desperately want to be taken seriously as a writer, and serious writers ridicule fashion. And so that will be your dilemma.

"But here's the truly sad part: No matter what you end up writing, you _will_ be one of us. You _will_ see the world through Miranda's eyes. The art, the beauty, the history, the creativity of our world. And once seen, that can never be unseen again. And if that truth frightens you, then put on your shapeless, mark-down Target-special wardrobe and leave now."

"Nigel, come on..."

"No, don't bat your eyes at me like that. I'm impervious to your charms. I'm saying this for your own good. I don't like being judged and neither does Miranda. It's tiresome when we know someone doesn't even understand what it is they're judging."

"I would never judge you or Miranda. I _will_ be impartial."

He gave an incredulous snort. "You already _have_ judged us. Every time you roll your eyes and huff when you put on an outfit that I tell you is fashionable, your mind has already automatically deleted its worth. Because if it's _fashionable_ it cannot possibly be _worthy_ or _valid_ for a serious writer like yourself. Do stop me when I get too close to the bone."

"Oh." The word came out small and ashamed.

"Yes, '_oh_'. Now try this one. And for God's sake, stop slouching. Be proud of your height. It's an asset in this game. Better. Put the grey on over the top of that camisole and then … hmmm. Ughh, no, _no_, don't squish them, point your puppies forward."

Miranda, who had closed her eyes to try and feel less like she was some perving stereotype of a boss having a mid-life crisis, was focusing on listening to Nigel's earnest points. She'd been nodding along to them. At his last sentence though, she snapped her eyes open.

Nigel had lifted his hands to adjust Andrea's breasts in the direction he wanted them 'pointing', but she quickly slapped them away with a growl. The young woman adjusted her breasts herself and shot him an aggrieved glare.

Miranda almost choked back a laugh at her complete outrage and Nigel's utter surprise.

He eyed her sheepishly and held his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, darling. That's OK. I forgot you're not a model. They're used to all their bits and pieces being manhandled." He paused and studied her final outfit thoughtfully. "That will have to do, I suppose. Right - take that lot off and add it to the pile. Next, onto the gowns."

"Gowns? When will I have to wear a gown?"

Nigel sighed. "Where _did_ Miranda find you? Really? You must tell me so I can get her to seal the doorway to Narnia so no more like you appear. Now _here_. Try this one. I suppose no one can make Chanel look downmarket. Even an adorably hick, size-six journalist."

He handed over a stunning black Chanel that Miranda knew would cost more than Andrea's annual wage. He then abruptly fumbled in his pocket and held up a vibrating cell phone. "I just have to take a call. Shout out if you need a zip up."

Nigel walked to the far side of The Closet and began talking animatedly. Miranda took the opportunity to exit her hiding place, selecting a route that was out of her art director's line of sight. She chose not dwell on why that was. She approached the makeshift changing room. Tall curtains hung on three sides, and a curtain at the front was pulled open.

She could see the tall mirror inside the 'room' and Andrea was facing away from Miranda, stepping into the gown and pulling it up over a shapely backside covered in a teasingly thin wisp of black La Perla lingerie. The dress was being drawn up her trim waist and then Andrea straightened. Miranda saw a hand scrabble to attempt the zip in the small of her exquisite naked back.

Without thinking, she immediately stepped forward to assist. She let her fingers shakily touch the zip with one hand and her fingertips dusted the bare skin with her other. _So soft._

Achingly slowly, she raised the zip.

"Thanks Nig…" Andrea began and then she stopped, her startled eyes meeting Miranda's ice blue ones in the mirror. The fashion editor paused her zipping, halfway up, and fell into the wide brown orbs watching her.

"Miranda?" The word was soft, uncertain, questioning, and Miranda could do nothing but stare back at the woman in the mirror.

They studied each other for long minutes, measuring each other, and Miranda could have sworn for just a moment, she saw something else. Something oddly familiar in those dark depths.

And then it was gone. Her brain worried at it.

"Well another day, another crisis," Nigel was saying from the other side of the room, clicking his phone shut and striding towards them. She could see the top of his head moving closer from behind the distant clothing racks. Miranda immediately snapped out of her trance, yanked the zip up the rest of the way, then almost leaped back as though she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Maybe she had.

A faint blush shaded her neck and cheeks and she felt appalled. Exposed. Completely horrified by her unseemly lapse.

_What the hell was it with this girl?_

She wondered if it would be wiser to cancel Andrea's London plans. It would not do to be distracted right now. Good God, she wasn't some hormonal teenager after all.

She caught a faint motion in the mirror and saw Andrea give a tiny, sharp headshake, as though reading her mind. _No cancellations_, the look said. _A deal's a deal._

Miranda took a much larger step back, putting physical and emotional distance between them, glaring at hypnotic dark eyes that really should be illegal.

She had not lied to Stephen when she said she had never touched an assistant. She hadn't. Oh she had touched her share of women in her time, and done a lot more than mere _touching_ - but never, _ever_ an assistant. That was a line she couldn't cross.

She swallowed.

She'd never been so sorely tempted in her life to cross that line than exactly two minutes ago.

_This was not good at all._

She wondered if she looked as disconcerted as she felt. She lifted her gaze and noted that brown eyes still watched her, a small smile teasing around the edge of her lips. Miranda ground her teeth in annoyance.

The woman was studying her as though SHE had the upper hand.

_Impudent girl. She could break her. She _would_, too. One phone call and she'd never write for any title loftier than Zoo Weekly._

She let that threat dust her narrowing blue eyes. Her own lips twisted maliciously in warning. _Toy with me? Get burnt._

A faintly mocking arched eyebrow met Miranda's dangerous expression.

She almost gasped. _Bring it on? Sachs did NOT just challenge her?! The cheek! Why she'd break the ridiculous upstart into little pieces. She'd …_

But suddenly her brain finally caught up and she identified the woman's earlier dark look. The expression that had seemed so strangely familiar but just out of reach. It was there so quickly that she wondered at first if she'd imagined it.

No wonder it had seemed familiar. She'd seen it in her own eyes.

_Desire._

_Andrea Sachs desired her._

A slow, knowing look crept across Miranda's face then, and she smiled broadly, her scarlet red lips splitting apart, oozing confidence, superiority and sexuality. Everything about her screamed smugly: "_I_ _know_."

Andrea seemed startled and there was an immediate faltering in her implacable expression. Finally, the maddening woman blushed, broke eye contact, and looked at the floor.

_Well glory be. _Miranda smirked, immensely pleased. She felt relief rush through her.

Nigel ambled back into the area and glanced at the two women before him. He looked from one to the other, vaguely puzzled.

"Miranda? What are you…?"

She shot him her "Don't start" glare and his face quickly rearranged its expression to neutral.

"Oh, right, well they need you in Accessories. You'll probably have to fire Cynthia. That stunning new designer they've been talking up all month just sent over his trinkets, and guess what? They're almost all last season's. He hoped no one would notice. He couldn't finish his new range in time – something about his muse running off with his boyfriend. Or maybe the muse _was_ the boyfriend - it was hard to follow through all Cynthia's sobbing. It seems that appalling dolt of an Accessories Assistant knew he wouldn't be ready but told _no one_. She also seemed to hope we wouldn't notice."

Miranda nodded and felt her strength returning. Ah, a battle she could take by the horns. She was back in her element. "Yes," she agreed, straightening to full height. "I'll go and …" she chopped her hand through the air viciously, "Sort it out. Fire someone."

She spun on one heel to leave, but could not fail to notice the odd expression ghosting her oldest friend's face.

The corner of her eye caught soft brown eyes also watching her as she stalked off. She deliberately tilted her head the other way, feigning no interest. She did not have time for distractions.

Even beautiful ones like Andrea Sachs, her inner voice noted with pout.

Yes. Even those.

_Especially those._


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE: THE DEVIL'S SUITCASE**

Miranda leaned over her bed where her Louis Vuitton President Classeur lay open, and considered what to pack. The leather case had been with her for years. It boasted a faintly worn purple Japanese maple-coloured lid with raw umber brown trim and LV printed insignia. Others who saw her with it might dismiss it as a briefcase. A classic, yes, but just that.

But, no, it was nothing of the sort. Nothing so mundane.

For a start it came with a false inset sleeve, affixed flat under the lid, which could be opened only via a recessed hidden keyhole. The case had been a gift from certain authorities after she'd first completed training two decades ago.

She hadn't thought about those days in years. Her parents had been Polish immigrants who fled their homeland during the rise of Hitler. Her grandparents had refused to leave. Her stubborn old grandfather had cursed her father for "_banie się własnego cienia_" - leaping at shadows - and deserting the family business. A tailor's shop.

Clothing had been in her blood for generations, it seemed.

The escaping couple had made a new life in England, where Miriam Princhek, as she would be known, was born. She very quickly became used to hearing two things.

From her mother: Tell no one that you are Jewish. You never know who is listening.

From her father: Be loyal to your new homeland. Repay them for this safe haven. Never forget.

Though the war had long been fought and won by the Allies, her parents often repeated their mantras to her as the years rolled on.

Her father learned English and eventually became a lowly worker for the British Government's Foreign Office, working long hours in a windowless office, his complexion becoming paler and sallower, his hacking cough worse each day. He did not smoke but his British colleagues did. He may as well have taken up the habit himself.

Miranda saw little of him as she blossomed with age into a willowy blonde-haired girl with an aristocratic nose, piercing blue eyes and a vicious tongue fuelled by an impressively quick intellect. She thought even less of her father's mystifying sacrifices in family and health - all in the name of misplaced national loyalty - for a pathetic job that seemed to be slowly killing him.

Miranda would be nothing like him, she'd already decided. She had places to go and ambitions to accomplish. She would be a _someone_ one day, and all those stupid and cruel children at school who mocked her name, her faint Polish accent, or poor background, would regret ever saying a rude word against her.

She would show them all.

Her mother had taught her to sew at an early age and she enjoyed it, but her design eye truly flourished the day she stumbled upon some of the glamorous women's magazines from America when she was 15.

It was like an entire world opened up before her and she sat on the park bench she'd found them tossed on, and scoured them for every detail, her eye darting excitedly from the unique cuts of the daring fashions to stitching and flow. Her heart thundered furiously fast. Faster even than that day Jenny Copeland had kissed her on the cheek and called her pretty, before sliding her hand deliberately to Miriam's waist and squeezing.

Oh yes, Miriam Princhek, eyes locked on glamorous fashions the likes she'd never seen before, at that moment knew exactly where her life would lie. She would work for one of these magazines some day. Her world would be fashion. And she would leave behind her father's grinding grey world and her mother's depressing existence spent taking in neighbours' washing to make ends meet for her family of five.

Her siblings never understood her, either, and both her brothers laughed uproariously when she revealed her grand fashion career plans. Her big brother, Aleksy, only wanted to work for the railway.

Little Wit just wanted to get a job in a factory with his friends.

Miriam pitied them all their low expectations. Could they not see the possibilities that awaited? The world was bigger than dirty old buildings and peeling paint and graffitied walls at community centres. Bigger than eternally grey skies, bracing winds and damp houses cursed with rusty, leaking pipes.

Why should she want that? Or, she pondered one night as she studied her tired father trudging through the door, his spirit crushed by the low ceiling he'd fixed on his world, why should she be _loyal_ to any of that?

So she planned. She finished school and took in work from a tailor shop, hemming ladies skirts and men's pants, and began to save. The money wasn't much but it went towards "research" - her subscriptions to her glossy American magazines that her mother dismissed wearily as a "foo's errand".

Her mother had taken to dropping her Ls on words like the women around the neighbourhood, all to better fit in.

Miriam disdained that, too. Her mother, she knew, had been scarred by the war, scarred by the impact of feeling persecuted for her religion and finally had turned into the meekest of creatures - one who thought small and dreamed not at all.

_God forbid she ever voiced an unpopular opinion. The world would surely end._

Unsurprisingly, Miriam, now 17, and her mother, did not see eye to eye.

"Don't be so bold and brash, Miri," she would plead. "You will stick out and be noticed and the enemies who lurk, those who are jealous, will cut off that which they do not like. It is dangerous to be the only one out on the limb. Trust your mother, child, I know these things."

Miriam had just snorted at the absurdity. "Don't be silly, Mamo," she told her, putting her hands on her hips. "If I'm never noticed, how can I possibly rule the fashion world?"

That month an advertisement in one of the big London papers caught her eye and she gasped, scarcely daring to hope. It took all of a minute for her to decide it was time.

She dressed herself up in her best outfit - she'd made it herself from design ideas sourced from an impressive American magazine called Runway. The very same glossy publication had recently opened a branch in London and needed staff, including an assistant to the deputy features editor.

Miriam didn't have any qualifications they listed, and she was too young, but she desperately wanted the job. She knew she could do it, too, if they just gave her a chance.

The interview had been curious. On the one hand, the lady with the expensive smelling perfume and exquisitely cut suit (Dior, Miriam suspected) had taken one look at Miriam's threadbare CV and almost thrown her out of the office. But, as her manicured fingers hovered her application over a rubbish bin, she suddenly asked the 17-year-old: "Why fashion? Why us?"

And Miriam's entire face had lit up as she explained. She began with the dream - how fashion transports and crosses countries, divides, ideologies. How even poor Jewish girls with nothing can see the same wonder of a fine cut and perfectly tailored ensemble as a rich socialite in Manhattan. How at the end of the day fashion is transcendent ... like music or great art. It needs to be celebrated. Gloried in. Then she added how it had changed her life by giving her a dream of her own. And, for good measure, she mentioned in passing that she'd run the fashion world one day.

The woman promptly dropped Miriam's CV back on her desk with a thud, staring at the young woman, open-mouthed. "Where _did_ you come from?" she asked in astonishment.

Then she peered at Miriam's dress. "And, where, pray tell, did you get _that_? I do not recognise the label. And I pride myself on knowing them all."

Miriam launched into enthusiastic detail explaining how she'd made it herself. How she quite liked the cut of Pierre Cardin's new women's suits and so incorporated that flair across the shoulder and bust, but felt the style of Hubert de Givenchy was more interesting and classic so she'd based most of her outfit on his latest design on Page 124 of March's Runway UK issue.

Although, she continued earnestly, the Givenchy in Runway New York - Page 76, was probably more engaging to the masses, with the long cut and clever use of contrasting tones, but the one in the UK issue was _definitely_ more classic. There had been "no comparison" in the end.

She stopped and sat back uncertainly when the other woman had ceased blinking, wondering if it was somehow wrong to take inspiration from famous designers. She'd blushed then, thinking maybe she'd made a dreadful faux pas, because who was she? A poor 17-year-old girl from a dreadful neighbourhood who hemmed rich people's clothes for petty cash. And, oh God, maybe it was tacky that she took elements from more than one designer and fused them to create an entirely new look?

_Was that not done?_

She swallowed and wondered if maybe she should crawl out right then and there before things got any more humiliating.

The other woman seemed to read her mind. "Stop fidgeting. You will not go anywhere. While you are completely unqualified for the deputy features editor assistant job you applied for ..."

Miriam felt so devastated she gasped. The woman lifted her hand and continued, "... but so help me, I will not let you leave these doors without being on my staff. Let me talk to Human Resources. Don't move an inch."

And that was the day Miriam Princhek entered the world of high fashion. Initially it was as a personal assistant to the woman who had just interviewed her. A woman who would drill in her the need for excellence in all things. And, most handily, the power of The Authoritative Whisper.

By her 22nd birthday Miriam Princhek was no more. She had reinvented herself as "Miranda Priestly", a byline that appeared prominently on her exhaustively researched and increasingly prolific fashion features.

By her 27th birthday Miranda had replaced her retiring mentor as Editor in Chief of Runway London, becoming the youngest fashion editor anywhere in the world. She was the toast of town. Adoring, doting and snivelling designers, in turn, arrived from all corners of the world to kiss her feet. Among them was an intriguing young American designer called Nigel Kipling, who was looking for a career change. She took his business card.

This was just the start, she knew in her heart. And she would not rule the world until she took New York.

But for all the accolades and congratulations she couldn't help but notice she received none closer to home. When she finally phoned her mother, wondering if maybe her parents had not heard the news, the older woman seemed more interested in wistfully telling Miranda about Wit's new fiancee. As though her younger brother's banal love life was somehow the equivalent of Miranda dominating the London fashion publishing world in just one decade.

Her mother then compounded the sheer awfulness of the moment by adding - even more wistfully - that it was high time Miranda started dating, too. Even Jenny Copeland was now "dating that nice lad, Billy Day, the baker's son around the corner", her mother helpfully declared, before adding quietly - and far too knowingly: "Hens are so fickle, my daughter. Why don't you try the roosters?"

A cold prickle had shot down her spine. Miranda had been unaware her mother had known of her ... preferences. She'd been so careful, or thought she had. But if even her elderly, now half-blind mother from a formerly repressive country where certain things are _never_ discussed could work it out, she realised it might be time to consider her image.

By the time she'd hung up from her, she was thoroughly depressed and in no mood to celebrate anything. She opened a bottle of ridiculously expensive wine in her new townhouse overlooking the Thames and sat alone in the dark, watching the boat lights go by, as she drank all of it.

As a general rule, though, promotion or not, Miranda's parents did not often speak to her. Miranda had decided it was because her mother was reluctant to admit she'd been wrong about her daughter's bold approach to seizing life. Whatever the reason, Miranda was rapidly concluding, as the months ticked on and Runway UK's circulation started reaching dizzying heights under her leadership, she was very content to leave the frustratingly meek woman and her dreary world behind.

Her siblings, she noted, too, had done exactly what she'd predicted years before, immersing themselves in working-class mundaneness with a gusto she could not remotely comprehend.

Her older brother, Aleksy, died tragically on the job in a railway accident before he'd turned 30. Although the nationalised British Rail company had been clearly at fault, they sent only a food hamper and a form letter of apology.

Miranda had been apoplectic, asking her stony-faced father after the funeral service about his unswerving loyalty to his adopted Government now. He had merely sighed tiredly and said no country was perfect. Then he'd gone back into the office that afternoon.

She did not speak to him again. At least, not until one day two years later.

* * *

It was 1985. Miranda Priestly was on top of her game, now boasting international name recognition, and busily preparing for London Fashion Week.

The man who'd given her life had aged and seemed generally greyer around the edges as he shuffled unexpectedly into her office, as a surprised assistant blurted out: "It's your Pa, Miranda."

The fashion queen had stared at the wide-eyed girl, who seemed gobsmacked Miranda was capable of having parents at all - rather than being hatched, she presumed - and decided that in approximately five minutes this idiotic assistant would be fired.

Until then, she indicated to her father a chair opposite her and waited.

He eased himself into it and looked up at her with what appeared to be embarrassment. "I'm sorry to bother you, Miriam, I know you're so busy."

"What do you need?" she asked in her softest whisper, peering at him over her glasses. "Money? Wasn't the new house for you and Mama gift enough?"

"No. No, of course, not money," he said awkwardly. He leaned forward, as though straining to hear, and Miranda realised he'd probably gone deafer in his older age. He resumed speaking. "I... made a commitment to my superiors, and I can't fulfill it and so I need your help."

He glanced at his liver-spot covered hands and twisted them.

Miranda leaned back in her white leather executive chair (a gift from Philippe Starck himself) and examined her father silently, taking in the mothball-smelling off-the-rack suit and shrunken chest which seemed to get smaller the longer he sat there. His chest crackled when he breathed.

Not for the first time she wondered how she had been born to this set of parents.

"What did you promise them?" she asked, a little louder this time, taking pity on his withered ears.

"Access. To a man who will be at an event you're attending at London Fashion Week. I thought the people I had in place could achieve this but they have been unable."

"_Access_?" Miranda repeated slowly, struggling to understand what her lowly bureaucrat of a father would want such a thing for. "Who? Why?"

"Yves Saint Laurent," his father said and looked at her awkwardly. "He's become increasingly reclusive. We only have one chance to meet discreetly with him and time is critical. We need to see him at that event."

_One chance? One chance at what?_ Suddenly a thousand thoughts filled her brain, a thousand scenarios, and the realisation that all her father's absences might have been for a different reason than he'd wearily told his family.

"Why do you need access to a man who, in 1971, did a repugnant Nazi-themed fashion collection?" she asked in a measured tone, and watched as he subtly flinched.

"I can't tell you, Miriam. I just ... it's Government business."

"Tato," she said even more softly, referring to her old Polish name for addressing her father, "Who do you work for?"

"You know who."

"Perhaps. Indulge me."

"The Foreign Office."

"Which part? Be specific. Accounts receivable? The mail room? Diplomacy?'' She paused and studied him then added quietly, "Espionage? Counter espionage?"

His face faintly reddened and she frowned.

"Miriam..." he sighed. His eyes met hers and she could see the truth in them. "I can't."

"All this time I thought you were some bottom-dwelling bureaucrat. All this time I thought you had no ambition." She stared at him, wondering if she'd ever known her father at all.

"My corko ..." he tsked and shook his head wearily. "Daughter, you have ambition enough for us all. I do what I do for loyalty for my adopted country. Can we leave it at that?"

"Even after Aleksy?" She was curious more than angry now. The tears shed for her brother had long dried. Her anger at her father had been misdirected, she acknowledged, but his constant cheerleading for authority had always grated on her.

To get anywhere you had to fight the grey suits, not don them. Anyone who wanted to carve out their own place in the world knew that.

He huffed out his chest a little, and she heard it rattle. He coughed for a few long moments before answering.

"We are free because of this country," he said. "You can be this ... this famous businesswoman you are now, this woman I see on the news and in the newspapers, because of this country. Don't you dare deny it. Now I ask you once more, will you help?"

His eyes, sea blue and burning, fixed her with a stare she'd never seen before. It was as stubborn as her own eyes in the mirror and for the first time in probably, well ever, she actually felt the familial connection to her.

She gave the faintest hint of a smile as though he'd asked such a simple question.

"Of course, Tato."

He nodded stiffly then, his eyes betraying a look of such profound relief, she wondered what exactly was at stake.

Though she later organised the requested meeting, she never did find out.

The years passed by, and rather than seeing less of her father as had been the case early in her career, she now saw far more of him. It turned out her little black book of contacts was vastly pleasing to his superiors. Her access, unmatched, was duly noted. She was able to get into places and parties few others could. She was suddenly a very valuable commodity.

One day her father met her in a park near her office at lunchtime and sat with her, feeding the pigeons, while she tried not to mentally redo The Book in her head. Her time was short and she felt restless for more reasons than one.

"My superiors want to meet you," he began without preamble. "They think it's time we cut out the middle man. And since I'm the middle man, and so close to retirement," he added with a faintly disapproving twist of lips, "they have a valid point."

At his mention of retirement, Miranda turned to look at him - really look at him. Greying around the ears, his face seemed tired and creased, and yet he still didn't seem _that_ old. He gave her a reassuring nod. "It's fine, Miriam. It's time to put my feet up. But, child you must know you've made them all sit up, where I work. They see you. The clever way you make sure you're never noticed doing what must be done, even when you're the centre of attention - they've all been impressed. It's like you don't understand the word impossible."

Miranda snorted. "It's a word used far too often, I've found. So are you going to finally tell me who you work for?''

He shook his head. "Always so curious. But I'll let them do the honours. Now, business. If you agree to sign on, they'll train you, and use you sparingly for work that best suits your skills. It's the same work as before but you'd now get compensated properly, be properly prepared and fully trained, and have them available as your backup in any emergency, day or night."

"Why would I want to sign on for more of this if it's not to help you? I've already got too much on my plate. They're considering me to take over Runway America. It's my dream job. I've fought my whole life for this." She eyed him closely, wondering if he even had the remotest clue what that meant to her.

"I know, daughter. So do they. That's why you're perfect for them now. They particularly like that you can frequently travel the world and never arouse suspicion. Only drug runners and spies travel as much as you. But, unlike them, you never get harassed at Customs."

"You never said why I should say yes."

"Miriam," he said seriously, "You will do this because it is the right thing to do. Because you were born into a little Polish family who had to flee for their lives. Millions more were not so lucky. And this country gave you a home and made you safe. You must repay the favour. It's the honourable thing to do."

"Tato..." she huffed and gave an eye roll.

"It IS the right thing to do. Think of your grandparents. Dying at the hands of those bastards." He swore in Polish and Miranda's eyebrows lifted. It was not something she'd ever heard pass his mild-mannered lips before.

She felt guilty then, as he knew she would. It was an emotion she rarely allowed herself to feel and she glared at him indignantly. "You do not play fair," she accused.

"Here is an address. Be there in exactly a month's time at the place and time listed. Miriam, do it for your country."

She wondered if he knew just how little that entreaty motivated her. Her mind was already mentally packing for a new life in America. She could almost taste the excitement in Times Square and see the cutting-edge couture from promising new designers whose lives she would change.

But he hadn't ever really understood her, and what drove her.

None of her family had.

Then her father did something she could never remember him doing before, and leaned over clutching her tightly in a somewhat awkward hug. "If patriotism isn't enough," he muttered knowingly, "Then please find a reason that is."

Three weeks later he was dead.

Lung disease. Inoperable.

He would have known. Miranda realised afterwards that he had to have known he had so little time.

Her mother had looked at her at the funeral and, through red, swollen eyes, pinned her with a strange haunted gaze. Then she pointed a gnarled arthritic finger at Miranda's chest and said that she was "just like him".

How bizarre. The fashion editor didn't understand what she meant at all.

Miranda kept the appointment her father asked her to attend. And she went to the next one. And the next.

She then took an extended leave - ostensibly to "get ready" for her now newly appointed New York job - and instead did MI6's ridiculous cloak and dagger tests. She endured their pointless, long personality questionnaires, their practical assessments, their strange exercises of attending events and practising blending into the background, identifying which strangers were likely a friend, which a foe. She studied simple codes, learned how to do hand-offs, to pick pockets and purses, do dead drops, plant and retrieve listening devices and she put up with, somewhat reluctantly, advanced weapons and martial arts training. She did it all, and she did it superbly well.

The day they gave her the Louis Vuitton briefcase and wished her well for her new life in New York she thought of her father. She'd indeed found a better reason than patriotism to do this absurdly high-risk job.

She did it for him.

And that was the moment she finally understood what her mother had meant. Exactly like her father, Miranda Priestly valued loyalty above all else.

So, yes, she mused, shaking herself back to the present, to others this was a mere briefcase. To her it was her Devil's own suitcase. A reminder of who she really was. A symbol - of style, class, and clandestine endeavours of which she was secretly proud. But more, it was a symbol of what she _and_ her father stood for.

But for all the emotion she overlaid on the worn, beloved leather, the case was also essential in a practical sense. It facilitated her secret work.

Miranda glanced at the clock. Time she stopped daydreaming. They'd be here soon.

She placed a manila folder with her itinerary and other contacts for London Fashion Week into her case. No customs officer would find it out of place. In fact they'd expect to see it. She deliberately did not avail herself of the case's hidden compartment - too many questions if someone got curious. Besides, it was never needed on a flight.

She had the habit of pointedly packing for one. One pair of reading glasses. One make-up case. One change of stockings. One set of lingerie. One change of heels. One business suit. One hairbrush. One Runway magazine. One Vanity Fair magazine. All the things a single, fashion-oriented businesswoman abroad might possibly want.

All the things she would never even touch for the duration of her working holiday. Because the greatest irony was that she never actually saw her cherished case at all when she travelled abroad.

Well not once she landed. That is to say, she never saw HER version of it.

Standing in an airport lobby after collecting her luggage and exiting customs, she would make a science of engaging her staff in a flurry of commands, waiting to feel the slight whoosh of air by her left calf as some unseen hand would swap her case with its identical twin.

After all, any halfwit of a spy knew it was an unacceptable risk to attempt to get through Customs in another country carrying anything that could raise questions - especially when embassies the world over could supply exactly what she needed AFTER she'd been processed.

The case-swapping would repeat at the other end of her travels, either at the airport or her hotel. At times the hand who did it was so good she had no idea when the swap had even occurred.

Miranda quickly zipped her never-to-be-worn Prada heels into a protective bag and dropped them in her case. She wondered what the cloned case she would receive in London would contain. _That_ case - the hidden compartment would most definitely be utilised.

Would it be coded orders to acquire a key card from an unknowing woman's handbag as she applied her lipstick in some ballroom ladies room, only to return it an hour later? A USB stick dropped in a gentleman's coat pocket as she leaned forward to offer his cheek an air kiss? A tiny bug planted inside the back cover of a top model or fashion designer's look book?

She was adept at them all.

Miranda closed her LV case with a click and locked it. No, it would hardly be anything so mundane this time, she knew. Too many signs and portents told her this mission would be on a whole new level.

She heard the knock at the front door and realised her driver, Roy, was here. She gathered the LV case, as well as the luggage she actually would need along with her handbag, and called out a goodbye to her housekeeper and nanny, Clara.

Her front door she shut and firmly locked, then Miranda looked at the limousine taking her to the airport. Nigel, Emily and Serena were already inside. Expectant faces. No pressing anxieties beyond the obvious. _How lucky for them._ She exhaled heavily through her nose.

Roy took her bags to the trunk and packed them efficiently.

"Andrea Sachs is meeting us at the airport," he announced as he went to hold open her door. "She texted Emily and me just now to let you know."

Miranda sniffed. "How delightful for her. Really - does she think she's the Queen, announcing her arrival?"

"You didn't want to know where she was?" Nigel asked curiously as Miranda settled in the back seat beside him. "After all that fuss to get her kitted out?"

"On the contrary. I need to know where her coffee machine is at all times. Her, I will try to overcome my vast feelings of indifference for."

She caught a strange look on Nigel's face, a perplexed frown, and pursed her lips in irritation. The man's astuteness at judging when she was lying was becoming vastly annoying.

"Is there some reason we are not moving, Roy?" she snapped, effectively declaring the subject closed.

And then she leaned back, closing her eyes as the car purred into life and pointed for the airport. Soon she'd be in the country of her birth. Soon she'd find out things that could well get her killed.

_And soon she'd see Andrea again_, her inner voice supplied smugly while her thoughts were still meandering.

Miranda's eyes snapped open.

* * *

_**Author's note:** I know this is probably nothing like the chapter you were expecting but I can't write a Miranda spy AU in a vacuum. I was craving context so I had a burning urge to slip this background chapter in. Normal Mirandy programming resumes next chapter. Thanks goes to 3-piece-suit for the Polish language boot camp._


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX: YOUR PLACE OR MINE**

Emily pushed the trolley containing their luggage into the airport ahead of them, chatting quietly to Serena, while Miranda ran through their plans for London Fashion Week with Nigel.

"Vivienne Westwood's show tomorrow night looks the most promising but really would it be too much to ask for some fresh blood? How old is she now? Seventy?''

Nigel opened his mouth but she waved his answer away and plowed on. "I mean honestly - a red theme for February - just after Valentine's Day? _Groundbreaking_."

She sniffed and Nigel took that as his cue to pick up the one-sided conversation.

"What about Josh Goot or House of Holland? I hear their respective autumn/winter lines are going to be ..."

"I said _fresh_ not reconstituted," she drawled and looked about as they reached the Arrivals First Class check-in queue. "Now then..." She drew to a stop. "Where _is_ she? Her Highness of the Many Texts?''

Nigel glanced around and then tilted his head in one direction, trying to hide a smirk. Miranda followed his head movement wondering why he was suddenly pulling faces. And then she sighed. The girl was waving at them like a demented three-year-old, her face split into a wide grin. Honestly her own young daughters never behaved in such an attention-drawing manner. It was so ... unRunway.

"Don't you dare wave back," she hissed at Nigel under her breath as she detected his hand twitch out of the corner of her eye. It stilled abruptly.

_Better._

"Miranda! Nigel!" Andrea said happily as she neared, dumping her luggage near her feet. In her haste, her bag banged against a certain purple Louise Vuitton case that Miranda had just placed at her side.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry!" she said flinging herself to her knees to right it. "Oh wow, this is so nice. Have you had it long?"

"_Andrea_," Miranda said glaring at her. The last thing she needed was an inordinate amount of attention paid to her special briefcase. "Leave that alone and open up your luggage."

"Uh ... _what_?" Blinking brown eyes found hers, surprise lining her face.

"Your suitcase. Open. Right now." She said it sharply, brooking no dissent.

"Miranda?" Nigel asked quietly. "What are you doing?"

"We made a deal," Miranda said archly. "I'm just confirming Andrea is upholding her end of it. I need to see the _merchandise_," she said giving the word a sultry twist, her lips twitching into an evil smile.

"Oh, right, the coffee maker," Andrea said and grinned. "Why didn't you say so? It's in here. Nice and safe." She unzipped a fat bag and unwound towels wrapped around a bright red polished retro machine. Andrea gave it an affectionate pat. "OK?'' She looked up at Miranda, eyebrows raised challengingly.

"I certainly hope you don't expect to check that in with the rest of your luggage?"

"Uh, yeah, well, of course. You don't seriously expect me to lug that into an overhead locker do you?"

"I expect you to do exactly that."

"But Miranda, I'm on an economy ticket - I can only take one bag in the cabin with me. If I take my coffee maker, I can't take my laptop and my other valuables."

"Your valuables?" Miranda purred dangerously. "Call the other nonsense what you will but, as per our agreement, you officially only have one valuable. And that device is coming with us, not in the hold, to minimise any risk of harm coming to it." She put her hands on her hips. "Do I make myself quite clear?"

Andrea's mouth fell open in astonishment and Miranda had to refrain from laughing at her outraged expression. With the greatest of restraint she kept her lips thinly pressed together and gave her best glare.

"Fine," Andrea ground out. "Let me try and squeeze some of my most important things in the bag with it."

"No time for that," Miranda said and indicated with a wave Emily, who was frantically gesturing for them to join her and Serena at the front of the queue. A frowning British Airways official leaned forward, impatiently waiting to check them in. "So Andrea, if you are done holding us up with your dramatics, I'd like to get to London before the designers start on their spring/summer collections."

She strode regally forward to the counter pretending not to notice Andrea's irritated grimace.

_Really the woman was way too easy._

* * *

The flight had been acceptable. Miranda had managed to get a lot of work done. Emily had scribbled furiously while Serena and Nigel had compared notes on some expected accessories the tall Brazilian woman wished to get a closer look at in London collections.

Miranda had twice gotten up to use the bathroom and on neither occasion had she tried to surreptitiously spot Andrea in her economy seat at the rear of the plane. At least that's what she told herself. She hadn't succeeded anyway. God only knows where the impossible woman had secreted herself because it wasn't on either side of the immediate vicinity of the First Class facilities.

There had only been one wrinkle in their journey. It was not long after they exited Customs into the arrivals lounge and were waiting for their limousine service to arrive. Emily's trolley, with all their bags stacked high, had developed a wheel wiggle and Miranda's LV had come crashing to the ground.

Andy had scampered over to pick it up before Miranda could get there first.

"Here let me," the brunette said, locking eyes with Miranda. Suddenly Andrea glanced down at it and frowned. "That's odd."

Miranda's nostrils had flared in alarm.

"It's lighter than before," the young woman said half to herself. "And the tiny scratch on the left corner of the lid has gone."

Everyone froze and turned to stare at Miranda, holding their breath. Her staff all knew by now not to mention her beloved bag, let alone touch it. She'd passed this decree off years ago as an eccentric quirk, and they all slavishly abided by it unquestioningly.

"Oh, uh, sorry," Andrea said as everyone had stilled around her. She appeared to have realised she'd made some sort of faux pas. "Never mind." She promptly placed the case back on the trolley, neatly centred this time, to prevent further tumbles.

Still no one spoke. Miranda stared at the young woman in mild shock, cursing herself for bringing along the smart girl who was far too observant for her own good.

Andy flushed faintly under the prolonged scrutiny and finally just shrugged helplessly. "Long flight, crying baby next to me the whole time, so I'm a bit overtired. Obviously I'm imagining things." She gave a tired, half-hearted chuckle and rubbed her eyes self-consciously.

"Yes." Miranda stared at her for another beat, then turned away to hide her relief as their limousine pulled up.

She watched as Andy ran up and talked to the driver for a minute and then helped him with their luggage.

_Honestly - did she fancy herself as their porter now?_ Then she understood as the driver carefully placed the bag containing the coffee machine in a more protected place and snapped a restraint around it to keep it safe.

She nodded in approval and then strode to the passenger doors, settling into a seat, and positioned her sunglasses on her nose. The sooner she was ensconced in her hotel the better.

* * *

The ride to the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington was smooth enough and Miranda was rather looking forward to her five-star penthouse suite. She knew from experience it had the most divine bath.

As they exited the limousine, a hotel porter appeared and piled up their bags on a trolley, leading the way into the foyer. Miranda had gone six steps to follow when she realised Andrea was not leaving with their party. In fact her bags were being reorganised in the trunk as she spoke to the driver again, pointing down the street.

"Andrea?" Miranda asked sternly, uncertainty rippling through her. "Going somewhere?"

Emily and Serena both turned in surprise, flanking Miranda on each side. Nigel was oblivious, already well ahead, busily checking in.

"Yeah," Andrea said. "My hotel. It's not far, just a few streets away."

"_Your_ hotel?" Miranda's voice dropped an octave. "We are already at your hotel."

"Miranda," Andrea said imploringly, "I thought you understood. I can't take anything from you if I want to write my story impartially. And this is a five-star hotel. I can't take a free room that would amount to more than a thousand American dollars by the end of the week. It'd be no different to being on your payroll."

Miranda stared at her, unable to believe her ears. She heard Emily beside her suck in a shocked, shuddering breath but couldn't tear her eyes off the impetinent creature in front of her.

"Don't worry," Andrea rushed on enthusiastically, "I found a great Best Western nearby - it's three stars so it's affordable. Oh, and even better, it's a stone's throw from the Natural History Museum, so that's good right? And don't worry I have this really amazing thermos, too - which keeps coffee piping hot for two hours. Sometimes longer."

Miranda peered at her as if she was exceptionally dense, wondering what thermoses or museums had to do with anything. Had Andrea fallen down and hit her pretty little head?_  
_

"You won't stay with us?" Serena cocked her head in complete confusion. "Do you like your natural history that much, Andy?"

"Uh, I thought you all knew: the Natural History Museum's east lawn is where the British Fashion Council tent is being set up this year."

Miranda frowned at this as some vague recollection came to mind about such trivia that she had dismissed at the time. That's what she had assistants and drivers to keep track of for. Andrea was earnestly plowing on, looking at the tall Brazilian with wide eyes.

"And Serena while I'd love to stay with you all I personally can't afford a five-star place, so The Cromwell it is. It's not so much a want as a need."

Miranda felt like she was in the twilight zone and stalked right up into the brunette's space, lowering her voice.

"You have only one job here, Andrea," she began in a slow, measured tone, trying to reign in her temper. "ONE. You will make me coffee, day or night, as I demand it, as we agreed, and I fail to see how that can be accomplished from the nearest Best Western!"

She narrowed her eyes threateningly.

"Oh well it is actually doable. Look I have it all figured out." Andrea drew a massive tourist map from her pocket and began unfolding it across the limousine's now closed trunk. She began stabbing at random blue and red circles.

"If I get on the Tube at Gloucester Rd and get off at High St Kensington, it's really less than five minutes away, assuming the trains are on time, and like I said I have the world's best thermos, so..."

Miranda leaned forward and grabbed the map in a fist and scrunched it viciously, then tossed it to one side.

"Enough," she growled, ignoring Andrea's jaw falling open as she watched her enormous map bounce and tumbleweed its way down the street, before being flattened by a passing bus.

Miranda clenched her jaw and wondered how to make this woman see sense. Before she could begin, Emily stepped forward, green eyes flashing.

"Now listen to me, you idiotic troll," Emily said with an enraged hiss, "If Miranda wants you in our hotel, that's where you stay. No whining, no debates. Suck it up."

Andrea jutted her chin out. "No," she said and glared. "You can't bully me into changing my ethics for the sake of getting coffee a few minutes faster."

Emily leaned in, nose to nose, about to impart some cutting salvo Miranda guessed would probably get her slapped, when Serena tugged at the redhead's arm and murmured "Em, wait."

The statuesque woman stepped forward and looked Andrea in the eye.

"Why not a compromise?" Serena said in an amicable tone, "You can sleep in a spare bed in one of our rooms. Runway is already paying for the room so it wouldn't be an extra expense. The cost to the magazine for your presence would be nil."

Emily shot the accessories and make-up assistant a horrified glance. "Serena, no!"

"An excellent idea," Miranda purred, ignoring her assistant's outburst. "So who gets to be the lucky host?" she asked, eyes flicking between the two Runway women who appeared to be exchanging a wealth of meaningful glances.

"What'd I miss?" Nigel asked, stepping back outside, holding up a trio of white hotel key-passes like a poker hand.

"I, uh, we," Emily began, reddening as she looked at her shoes, "This year I booked Serena into my room."

Serena's eyebrows lifted in surprise and she flicked her friend a soft look.

"Why?" Miranda demanded. "It's in the budget that there are rooms for each of us."

"I know," Emily groaned and if it was possible she went even redder. "But I got just the one and now there's definitely no room for _her_." She poked a finger in Andrea's direction.

The silence that fell was telling.

Nigel got it first, muttering "Ohhh!'' his eyes rolling sideways. "So that's why they only had three room keys for me."

"You two?" Andrea asked curiously, eyes shifting from the Brazilian to the Brit and back again. "Are ... _together_?"

"Well no need to act so shocked," Emily sniffed, "It's not _that_ impossible is it?"

Serena gave her a sweet smile and glanced at the rest of the group under her lashes. "I do not think she intended you all to find out this way. I am sorry if this is awkward."

She slid her eyes over to her boss, while Emily steadfastly looked in the other direction while she tried to regain her composure.

Miranda exhaled sharply through her nose, not wishing to show how completely flatfooted she felt at missing a liaison clearly going on for some time right underneath her own nose.

Some spy she was.

"Well, you two will have to fraternize on your own time," Miranda said curtly, deciding it was time to bring this absurd circus to an end. "Go inside now and book a separate room for each of you. Then Andrea can choose whose spare bed she wants."

"Uh," Andrea raised a hand, "Do I even get a say in this?"

"I think I'm being remarkably accommodating about your ridiculous 'ethics' whims," the editor snapped. "So NO, you do not. Stop being difficult." She glared at the two women. "NOW, Emily."

"I'm afraid that won't work," Nigel interjected. "They're fully booked because of Fashion Week - the receptionist told me when I checked us in. So unless Six wants to snuggle up with me in my queen bed ... no pun intended ..."

"NO!" Andrea said, outraged. "I hardly know you for a start... and it's just... So ... God, so improper. Where do I start?!"

"Didn't think so," Nigel shrugged, unperturbed. "If you didn't like me innocently rearranging your puppies, bed warming was even less likely..."

"Enough! All of you," Miranda said her teeth grinding together. She could feel a migraine coming on. She turned to eyeball Andrea who still looked appalled, and shot her her iciest enraged glare. "If you were a real assistant, I'd have fired you a dozen times over in the last ten minutes for insubordination."

Andy looked at her indifferently and gave a faint shrug. Miranda had the most burning urge to slap the expression off her face.

The woman was simply impossible.

A masculine voice clearing caught everyone's attention.

"Ma'am, are you going to The Cromwell or not? I have another job booked in thirty minutes, so I really have to get going now."

"Ah, yeah, I guess I am," Andy said and turned towards the limousine, no longer making contact with Miranda's furious blue eyes.

"Miranda," Nigel said silkily, as he began to polish his glasses, "If I recall your flashy Penthouse suite comes with a second bedroom, does it not?"

Emily and Miranda both gaped. Andy faltered mid-step.

The editor shot him a dagger glare. "I do not share my lifts, so what on earth makes you think I will share my suite with anyone?"

Nigel smirked. "Well I guess it all depends on how badly you want your coffee to be instant, instead of coming via The Tube in a thermos."

"Not THAT badly," Miranda hissed immediately. She spun around to glare at Andrea who seemed to have frozen mid stride. "GO! And so help me if you don't deliver my coffee within ten minutes every time I call I will consider it a breach of our deal and will not only refuse you your interview with me but have you blacklisted from every publication across the US."

Andy shot her an incredulous look but then nodded and climbed into the car.

It pulled away, rolling right across Andy's now pancake flat map, and Miranda forced herself not to shake her head as her second assistant gradually disappeared.

Nigel did not share the same reticence and shook his balding head incredulously.

"Well ... she sure is independent," he noted and turned to trail after Emily and Serena, into the hotel lobby.

"That's one word for it," Miranda ground out. "I must be utterly mad to endure that ridiculous behaviour."

He chuckled. "Yeah. So it seems."

She pursed her lips and snapped her head menacingly in his direction. "Do not test me, Nigel," she snarled. "I am still feeling vastly murderous."

He held his hands up in surrender.

"Thanks for the warning," he said quietly, and followed her to the elevators.

He, Emily and Serena waited in silence for the elevator doors to close and Miranda rode alone to the very top of the hotel. Just as she had always liked it.

As she used her key card to open her penthouse suite she was struck by how lonely the vast room before her seemed. She did the tour slowly and glanced outside. A view with no one to share it with seemed somehow wasteful.

Her eye was drawn to a bench in the kitchenette where she could well imagine a particular coffee machine perched. A bright red one. Retro and polished.

She licked her lips.

It was ridiculous of course, she mused, as her eye fell to the second bedroom she would never even use.

Absurd, really, she was even giving the idea further thought. She ignored her inner voice taunting her to say aloud which idea she was specifically reconsidering.

She barely lasted fifteen more minutes before she picked up her cell phone with a sigh.

"Coffee. Ten minutes. Do not disappoint me."

She closed her phone with a satisfied clack, hearing only a startled "eep" on the other end.

Now that was more like it. For the first time in hours she smiled widely and relaxed.


End file.
